To the Still Earth
by A. Farnese
Summary: Arthur has rescued Merlin from Cenred's mercenaries, but his servant is badly injured. As he watches over Merlin through the long night, Arthur begins to wonder if their mission is worth the price they've paid. Canon, Set between S2 and S3.
1. 1- Silent Friend of Many Distances

_Disclaimer: Not mine, no money made, etc._

_A/N: I'm borrowing a page from April29Roses's book and basing this on a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke, which will be included in the epilogue._

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"Don't make me bury you here, Merlin. Not so far from home. Not now. Not ever."

There was no response from the feverish boy curled up under the downy blankets. There hadn't been for hours. He had hardly made a sound since they pulled him out of the wreckage of the mercenaries' camp just after dawn. Arthur leaned back in the wooden chair and pressed his hands to his eyes as though he could wipe the memories of the past few days away with his fingertips. They remained, though, too fresh and brutal to clear away with a thought and a gesture.

Nearly four days had passed since they had gone missing, ambushed while Arthur and the main body of the company were away, leaving Merlin behind with a handful of knights to set up camp. The prince, along with the rest of the knights, followed the mercenaries' cold trail up into the foothills to catch a sense of where they were going before the highland snows wiped away their traces. They had given up an hour before the early winter sunset and returned to the campsite, expecting to find warm tents and a hot meal waiting. Silence greeted them instead; the broken bodies of two of the knights, the splashes of bright blood in the snow, and the wrecked tents told the story clearly enough. The sellswords had split their forces, sending part of their number ahead to lure Arthur with a false trail while the rest of them remained behind to ambush whoever the prince left behind.

Only an idiot should have fallen for such a simple trick, but foolish, half-witted, sot of a prince that he was, Arthur had been taken in by it. Two of his knights had paid in the first moments. Three more had paid across the days of their imprisonment, and Merlin. . .

Leon had picked up the trail that morning, just as the first light of dawn broke through the gray clouds. The scuff of a muddy boot against a rock and the barest of prints the falling snow had not yet covered up. It was enough. Just enough to track them back to their camp, quietly surround it, and take them by surprise. Arthur was hardly winded when the battle was done, pushing the last of the mercenaries off his blade when the first cries rose. They had found the three knights dead- all of them battered, broken, and nearly unrecognizable. And there, at the edge of the camp, they found Merlin's ragged figure hanging by his wrists from a tree branch, his skin as pale as the snow falling around them, his blood bright against the gray tree trunk and the frost-covered ground.

He had been so cold, so still when they broke the rune-etched manacles, falling limply into their waiting arms. Arthur had cradled him like a sleeping child, praying against everything that the bright knife's blade Leon held to the blue-tinged lips would turn cloudy with Merlin's breath, no matter how faintly. His hopes flared anew when it did, and he dared believe that the faint beat under his fingertips was a pulse and not his own desperate imagination.

They left the bodies of their enemies behind to burn and gently wrapped their own dead to take them home. Merlin was carefully hoisted into the saddle in front of Arthur, swathed in thick woolen blankets and soaking in every bit of warmth from Arthur and the horse. He hardly made a sound until he started shivering and the shaking jarred his bruised and broken ribs. The prince did what he could to keep his own cloak draped around the boy and keep the horse to a gentle pace. Anything to ease Merlin's pained gasps until they reached a roadside inn where a handful of gold bought half the rooms and- more importantly- the services of the village's healer.

The woman was more midwife than physician, but she cared for Merlin as she would a newborn babe, her slender fingers deftly peeling away the blood-encrusted remnants of blue cloth from Merlin's back as each stroke of the cloth revealed more bruises and more slashed skin. Though he held his servant close to ease his pained breathing, Arthur could have looked away, could have watched the fire instead of the healer's steady movements, but he didn't.

_"This is my fault. Merlin suffers because I didn't look ahead. My men died because I didn't out-think my enemy." _

He unconsciously stroked Merlin's hair while the healer worked, willing warmth and wellness into the boy until the woman gently pried him away from the prince and, sip by sip, poured a honey-laden tisane into him. When that was finished, and all his wounds cleaned and bound with linen, they laid him down in the bed, propping him with blankets and pillows so he could breathe more easily. The healer left Arthur to watch over Merlin, a word of thanks on his lips as the door closed behind her.

They left midnight far behind when Arthur drifted to sleep in his chair with the fire roaring in the hearth and the wind howling outside. Neither sound drowned out the faint moan that woke the prince. His eyes snapped open to find Merlin's restless hands pushing at blankets he didn't have the strength to move, his chills having warmed into a fever while the prince slept.

"Arthur?"

Merlin's voice was so faint the prince nearly missed it. He rested a shaking hand against the boy's burning forehead. "I'm right here, Merlin. You're going to be all right."

The sapphrine eyes slowly opened, cloudy and confused by sickness and exhaustion. "Arthur, where are you?" He sounded so terribly lost.

"I'm here, Merlin," he tugged the blankets down over Merlin's shoulders, took one of the boy's hands in his own. It was dry and too warm for Arthur's liking. "You're safe now. Just rest."

Merlin's fingers twitched, his eyelids fluttering shut before he whispered, "Arthur?" again, a plaintive tone that nearly broke the prince's heart. Locked away in his fevered dreams, how could Arthur assure the boy he was out of harm's reach?

With a long sigh, Arthur dipped a cloth in the bedside basin of water and rested it on Merlin's too-hot forehead. "You're safe, Merlin. Just sleep now."


	2. 2- In This Vast Night

_Thank you to everyone who has commented, favorited, and followed this story. I really appreciate your support!_

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Outside, the storm grew worse. The wind howled and pummeled the shuttered windows with sleet and ice, while inside Merlin's fever worsened. Bolstered as he was by the blankets and cushions he couldn't toss and turn, but a pained moan sounded with every other breath. All Arthur could do was keep bathing Merlin's head and neck with cool water, and hope. Prayers were too seldom on his lips to do anyone much good.

He draped the cloth across Merlin's brow and leaned back in the chair to stretch out complaining muscles and rub his gritty eyes. He was beyond exhausted but sleep would not come, despite the featherbed that called to him from the other side of the room. The fear that Merlin would slip away and die, unnoticed, while the prince slept just a few feet away was too real a possibility to let Arthur rest easily.

Then there was Morgana.

After Morgause kidnapped her, Arthur expected his father to send him out to search for her. He would have gone even if Uther hadn't ordered it. As much of a nuisance as the girl could be, he loved Morgana like a sister and it pained him to think of her in the witch's clutches. But as the weeks of searching stretched into months, he began to lose hope, while Uther's obsession only grew deeper. _"Keep searching." "Keep looking." "Do not stop until you find her." _Those were all the words on Uther's lips when Arthur reported to his father. He couldn't help but hear the unspoken words, _"You have failed me,"_ every time he looked into the king's eyes and told him Morgana was still missing.

He had lost nearly thirty knights on these futile searches, counting the five dead in the past week. Arthur knew all their names, had trained with all of them. He had been the one to tell their families that their sons, brothers, or fathers would not be coming home. Each of their deaths had been a failure on his part- a failure to protect the men under his command, a failure to foresee what he should have seen coming. And every time he returned to Camelot without Morgana, he knew Uther would send him out again. And again. And again. Until he found her or died trying. The king would settle for nothing less.

_'Does he truly love her more than me?'_

He dashed away the frustrated tears that welled in his eyes. _'I'm just tired,'_ he tried to convince himself. Better than admitting that he was a wretched commander and a worse son.

Arthur leaned forward again and focused on Merlin, dipping the drying cloth back in the water before bathing the boy's face again, trying to smooth away the lines of pain etched around his eyes. There was a new hitch in his breathing and every time it caught, a choked cough rattled out of Merlin's lungs. "Just breathe. You're going to be fine," Arthur forced as much confidence as he could into his voice as he continued the litany of reassurances.

He would not be able to ride to Ealdor if anything happened to Merlin. The prince of Camelot could not go to Cenred's kingdom to tell a peasant woman that he hadn't been able to protect her only child, would not be able to look her in the eye and tell Hunith that he had failed her so completely. Only a letter from a prince she barely knew would to go that unfailingly kind woman to tell her that Merlin had. . .

_'No._'

He refused to let himself finish that thought. "You're not going to die, Merlin. You're going to get better, and we're going to find Morgana and go home and everything will be as it was before," he said, inwardly cursing the tremor in his voice and the lie on his tongue. Of course nothing would be as it was, even if they did somehow manage to find Morgana. But everyone, even a prince, had moments when they wanted nothing more than to indulge in a childish fantasy, and Arthur let himself imagine the world as it was before this nightmare had started, before Morgause had awakened the Knights of Medhir and turned his world on its head.

"Call me a dollophead, will you? Clotpole? Prat? Any one of the ridiculous insults you've made up. I promise I won't mind. Just this once." Arthur pleaded, "All you have to do is wake up, Merlin. Wake up, and you will have free reign to call me anything you like, and I won't say anything in return or throw anything at you. Only right now, though. If you're lazy and wait until morning your chance will be gone."

There was no response from the boy, just the raw scraping of each shallow breath. Arthur squeezed some of the water from the cloth onto Merlin's neck and back before replacing it on his brow. He took one of Merlin's hands in his own, mindful of the scrapes and bruises that marred the long fingers. Even his hands were too hot. "I know you're a lazy, stubborn idiot, Merlin, but even you can't out-stubborn me. I'm the prince. That means I can do everything better than you, and that includes being stubborn and irritating. So I'm going to stay right here and keep being irritating until you wake up. I might even start singing," Arthur tried to laugh, but it came out sounding more like a sob.

Dry fingers twitched against his. "Merlin?" he asked hopefully. There was another twitch, and suddenly Merlin's entire body convulsed, his hand jerking from Arthur's grasp, his chest heaving as he choked on a wet gasp. Then he shivered and fell still, his breath emerging in a long, rattling sigh.

He did not draw another.


	3. 3- To the Rushing Water Speak

"Merlin?"

Arthur shook the boy's shoulders in an attempt to rouse him, then slapped him lightly on the cheek when that did nothing. "No, Merlin, don't do this to me. Come on," he pleaded to the silent form, "You can't die." He pressed his hand against Merlin's throat and felt a faint beat there, like moths against a windowpane. Weak and fading, but still there. Enough room for Arthur's hopes to dig in and hold onto. "You're not dead, Merlin, you're just faking it. All you need to do is breath." And all the prince had to do was make that happen.

He didn't like the first solution that came to mind, but time was not on his side. Delay, and Merlin would certainly die. "I'm sorry about this," he whispered, then flipped the blankets off Merlin's shoulders to reveal his bandage-swathed back. Spots of crimson had bled through the bandages here and there. The boy's skin, where it showed, was mottled with ugly black and blue, and Arthur winced at the sight. _'Still. . . '_

Arthur aimed his blow just off center of Merlin's back; trying to avoid the deep cuts and bruises was a useless venture, there were so many. The hit was harder than the playful punches he threw at his knights. On Merlin's bony figure, it would probably form its own bruise come morning, but Arthur was willing to live with that. If there was a bruise to apologize for, it meant Merlin lived and that was worth all the contrition he could drum up.

Merlin shuddered, choked on a gasp of air. He sputtered for a moment until Arthur pulled him upright in a tangle of blankets and held him there until the boy's coughing fit faded into even, shallow breathing. The faint rasp of it was the best thing he had heard in ages, and he almost laughed with relief. "If you _ever_ to that to me again, Merlin," he whispered fiercely against the boy's hair, "I will kill you. Twice. And I don't care that that didn't make any sense."

Gently, he laid Merlin back against the pillows and set about straightening the blankets and the cushions. He did a clumsy job of it when all was said and done, but what did he know about playing nursemaid? That was supposed to be Merlin's job, not the other way around.

_'Of course, it wouldn't have come to this if you'd done your duty properly,' _his inner voice sounded too much like his father's. Arthur did his best to banish it before collapsing back into his chair. "I suppose that if everything else goes wrong, I did one thing right," he said. Shut tight in his inner world of fevered dreams, Merlin said nothing. The prince ran his hands through his hair and stared down at his shaking fingers before pushing himself out of the chair to stalk toward the fire. His jangling nerves wouldn't let him sit still.

That had been too close. He had almost lost Merlin. Again. He took up the iron rod at the hearth and angrily poked at the fire, taking out his frustrations on the embers, hoping they would burn out like the sparks he scattered. _'Is this what fate demands of this venture? That I must trade one friend for another? Will I have to sacrifice Merlin for Morgana's sake?' _

He glanced back at his friend's - yes, _friend's-_ sleeping form, watched the gentle rise and fall of Merlin's narrow shoulders as he breathed, and decided that if fate wanted one or the other of them, he would simply have to deny it its due. Merlin would live and they would find Morgana, and everything would turn out all right in the end. It had to. He couldn't fail at everything. He sighed and let the poker drop from his fingers, turning his eyes back to the fire. '_When we find you, Morgana, you had best live a life worthy of the lives given for your sake.' _

A bottle of wine had been left for him, along with a plate of bread and cheese. He ignored the food and poured himself a glass of the wine, a strong country red that would go straight to his head if he drank too much of it. Arthur shoved the cork back in the bottle and brought the cup back to Merlin's bedside, dropping into the chair with a grunt. Perhaps the wine would help calm his nerves so he could sleep for a few minutes. The boy was breathing easily now, and he was so terribly tired. He emptied the cup in two long draughts and set it aside, then settled back in the chair, turning his gaze to the dark ceiling, letting the rumble of the wind and the rhythm of Merlin's breathing soothe his whirling thoughts until his eyes closed and he drifted off.

"Arthur?" Merlin's raspy voice brought him awake again. The fire had died in the hearth and faint morning light shone through the shutters of the windows, though the wind still roared beyond them. Arthur sat up to find Merlin looking hazily about, still thick with sleep and sickness, but focused on the room around them. "Where are we?"

_'Where are we?'_ not _'Where are you?' _Arthur grinned, "Some village a hard day's ride out from Brill. A storm came up, and we had to stop."

Merlin nodded blearily as he tried to lever himself up on an elbow and winced when his arm gave out on him. He settled back against the pillows, his face almost as pale at the bedsheets. The shadows under his eyes were dark as new bruises and lines of pain creased his brow. He looked miserable.

He looked alive.

A weight rolled off Arthur's back at the sight of his living, breathing servant. He reached out and pulled the blankets over Merlin's shoulder. The boy's eyes fluttered open again, their deep blue a striking contrast to the pallor of his face. "I knew. . "

"Merlin, just. . . sleep for now. We can talk later."

Of course, Merlin would not do as he was told. He reached out with the last of his strength and caught Arthur's wrist. "Through. . . through all of it, I knew. . . you'd find me, Arthur." A faint, beatific smile graced the boy's face as his eyes slowly closed. "You've never failed me," he said as he dropped into sleep.

"You have too much faith in me," Arthur breathed as he folded Merlin's arm back onto the bed and brushed a hand over the boy's brow to check his fever. It seemed to have broken. Arthur felt the last bit of tension drain out of him, leaving him empty of everything but the need for sleep- and the knowledge that he hadn't failed at everything. In this one thing at least, Arthur Pendragon had done something right.


	4. Epilogue

Silent friend of many distances,  
feel how your breath is still expanding space.  
Let yourself peal among the beams  
of dark belfries. Whatever preys

on you will grow strong from this nourishment.  
Know transformation through and through.  
What experience has been most painful to you?  
If the drinking's bitter, turn to wine.

In this vast night, be the magic power  
at your senses' intersection,  
the meaning of their strange encounter.  
And if the earthly has forgotten  
you, say to the still earth: I flow.  
To the rushing water speak: I am.

- Rainer Maria Rilke


End file.
